Prison and Prisoner
by Azrie
Summary: What manner of black sorcery was woven to chain the vicious beast so securely to its Master? Why does the cunning monster listen and obey? And what of the man who made the prison and cursed them all?  A drabble or two set at the beginning of it all.
1. Chapter 1

"Prison and Prisoner."

**Disclaimer**: I have never, and likely will never own Hellsing. This idea, however, is all from the endless twittering of my own mind. Enjoy.

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_"He that is taken and put into prison or chains is not conquered, though overcome; for he is still an enemy."  
- Thomas Hobbes_

_

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_

He draws himself away, leaving the cool embrace of darkness, into the world of consciousness.

First, there is pain. It is as if every nerve in his form had been screaming in agony for weeks, and only now he recognizes it. Slowly, the pain dulls to a constant, rhythmic throbbing. _If I had a beating heart, it would follow the same rhythm, _he notes idly. Gradually, he grasps control of his senses, trying to remember where and how he last spent the hours aware. Nothing should have been able to injure him enough to drive him to unconsciousness.

The scent of old blood— his own blood, permeates the room. He growls; it is a low rumble that resonates in his chest, the sound of an agitated beast. Eyelids peel back and wine-red eyes gaze blearily at a foreign red and grey stone ceiling. _Spattered with blood_, the monster in the guise of a man notes idly. The throbbing in his head made it difficult to focus.

He senses no bothersome flutter of a nervous heartbeat – no mortals are present, human or otherwise. _Not that there is much of a difference between most 'beasts' and 'men.' _Nor is there a pulse of dark power indicating the presence of one of his species, or the wild, unhindered power of other immortal beings.

_I am alone._ That thought allows him a small measure of peace. It means he has at last been moved from the basement rooms of the Carfax Asylum, and is free from the endless twittering of maddened minds. As amusing as listening to the thoughts of mad dogs and their keepers had been, he had swiftly tired of it all.

He stares at the ceiling, waiting for the pain to fade further. _My healing should be faster than this. What sort of wound did that man inflict in his experiments that it is still bothersome?_ When the painful throbbing recedes to a dull ache— a brief few minutes that feel like they span an hour, he sits up, in order observe his new prison more closely. _Perhaps, a step up from being pinned down like an insect, left insensible in a cheap wooden box, or being bled dry and shackled in the basement of an asylum for lunatics, _he notes idly, crimson gaze scanning the room.

The room is large and windowless; the walls are composed of the same roughly hewn stone as the ceiling. The floor was also rough gray stone, and covered in his blood. There, however, crude symbols are meticulously painted on every stone as opposed to aimless splatters. A single, wide door is the only exit: it is reinforced steel, plated with a thin layer of silver, likely blessed. He wonders exactly how much funding that door cost; and how his one-time adversary, now warden, explained away the oddly specific requirements to the craftsman.

The walls are left largely unadorned, giving the room an atmosphere of emptiness. A pair of wood bookshelves, bereft of any reading materials, are pressed against one wall. A large, ornate desk made of dark, polished wood sits in a corner; a chair similar in style and composition is set beside it. On the desk lay a handful of leather-bound tomes, and several flickering wax candles which are set in a polished, but plain, metal chandelier. Their warm light is the only source of illumination, and most of the room is cast in eerie shadows; not that the monster needed any light at all to see. _So, that accursed Professor aims to visit soon. That man's hospitality is as lacking as before. Should he give me the chance, I will rend the flesh from his bones.. with most agonizing slowness. _Already, Van Helsing has shown himself to be knowledgeable of the old laws and far too cunning for a mortal. The monster's confinement has been many months, perhaps even years; though time has little meaning to an immortal._ They cannot destroy a true immortal being; I have proven such already. If that man does not release me, then another will—I have time enough to wait. When he or another of his ilk missteps, I shall be free to hunt his descendants—all those that carry even a drop of his blood, and have my vengeance._

He starts, realizing he is, for once, without the old straightjacket Van Helsing had deemed to provide him, left only in tattered black pants. The realization comes when cool air wafts over his skin; a draft from beneath the silver-coated, reinforced steel door that is the only exit from his current cage. _Interesting.._

He shifts down from the raised steel table that his form had been on, stepping down from the stone dais it is on, working the stiffness from his undead muscles by moving around the sparsely furnished room. The monster's hands drift over the skin of his arms; although he knows, instinctively, that there are no wounds, something unsettling has been done to him. He feels—disjointed. Blood clings, half-dried, to his skin as well as his clothing, causing a mild, albeit persistent itch. _Irritating.._ But not as irritating as the itching in the back of his mind is; something is off.

The monster in a man's form directs his gaze downward, deciding to more closely study the symbols Van Helsing had seen fit to draw in his blood. After all, both blood and words hold power over the supernatural, even one such as him. The more powerful the being, the fewer the rules binding him, but in contrast the stronger a hold those rules have. He crouches, reaching out to touch one of the foreign symbols, and feels a pulse of malicious power in response: his own power, but changed.

He freezes, noticing that the same symbols have been etched on the back of his own hands: thin, newly healed scars in his flesh. They throb in response to the wave of power, and then twist into words. He knows what that accursed man has done.

Old magic, of power, oaths and blood-bindings. A twisted geis, a curse of words that thrice binds him but also augments his powers. He is chained, as if he were a belligerent and maddened hound. Though, this time the hound is a monster, kept for what? _So, this was his decision, in the end.. While that man could defeat the monster, he found he could not kill it—kill me, so instead he decided to enslave the monster._ In exchange for nigh-infinite dark power, for further augmentation of the strength he spent tens of decades cultivating, for the near-elimination of the weaknesses inherent to his kind, he was made a slave, bound to the will and whims of his most hated adversary and his blood. _Truly cursed, now._

Soon, that man would come with his cloying words, offering a choice with only one plausible answer: obey and grasp onto the illusion of free will, or be left to starve and whither down to an immobile corpse despite all his power. Left to rot until his resolve weakens... and he submits and agrees to obey.

The trapped monster rises, his previously chaotic emotions changing into a cold, relentless fury. Power swells, left undirected by his loathing, filling the room with an ominous feeling. The candles set on the desk flicker out, wafts of light smoke released into the air. It makes little difference to him. _Well, well.. If he desires a mad dog, then he shall receive one. Eventually, he or his will falter in their resolve. Then, I devour them._ The monster smiles then, a Cheshire thing that reveals a mouth full of pointed fangs. Yes. As always, he would survive, triumph, and consume. A game he could manipulate, to waste away the days of his imprisonment. He would play at madness— drive his captors to distraction. He would make him forget._ Very well, I will let you and yours use my power for your own gain, Van Helsing. I must test its limits and the limits of this binding anyway. But in exchange for this indignity, I will demolish all you will ever hold dear._

A moment of concentration, and the shadows of the room pull around him; the tattered remains of his clothing reform into something more suitable, and the dried blood disappears from his form. The monster hides again beneath the facade of a devastatingly handsome gentleman. He is clothed in understated finery, a starched white shirt beneath an ornate buttoned black vest and black trousers tucked into fine leather boots. He chuckles quietly and moves over to the desk, turning the chair to face the only door in his new domain, and seats himself there.

It was time to wait.

* * *

It's been a while, and I think this is a bit wordier than I would prefer.

Yet another idea, though this one has been rattling about in my skull for a while. (I have quite a few of those in my "write me" folder on my computer. Fickle things, ideas.) This will probably be a standalone thing, unless someone— or my muses, insist particularly much. If you've read the other things I've squeezed out of my thoughts, know that "Scribe" will eventually get an update. Never fear. I've been busy writing essays for Med School applications. Unfortunately, that and work have priority.

Reviews, critiques, etc. would be much appreciated. Please?


	2. Chapter 2

"Prison and Prisoner."

**Disclaimer: **Again, I have never, and likely will never own Hellsing. Or Dracula, for that matter.

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"If you put a chain around the neck of a slave, the other end fastens itself around your own."  
-Ralph Emerson

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Brooding dark blue eyes stared with great dissatisfaction at a steaming, porcelain teacup. Said eyes belonged to none other than Professor Abraham van Helsing (M.D., Ph.D., Litt.D., etc.), a tall, broad-shouldered, burly man, who loomed over the hardwood desk placed in his office, even when he sat in the comfortable leather chair behind it, as he was doing now. He gazed mournfully at the teacup placed on aforementioned desk, set carefully between a leather-bound tome and a small stack of unopened letters. The innocuous white cup, cradled gently in a matching saucer, was filled to the brim with freshly steeped Earl Grey. It had been carefully placed onto his dark, hardwood desk a minute ago, delivered by his dearest Helena. There was only one problem.  
He preferred coffee.

But he was British now— as were his wife and children. He adapted.

Helena, a soft-spoken but strong-willed woman, was well into the third decade of her life. She had already been a widow when they met, daughter of a minor noble family; she had lost both her first husband and her daughter to an illness that ravaged the families of London one cold winter season. She was comely and plump, with straight, flaxen hair; it was more her spirit than her appearance which had captured his attention. Helena, who he had bonded with over their mutual loss of a child, and who he had married a scarce few months after his first wife had died in an insane asylum. Helena, the woman he sacrificed his true religion for, becoming a Protestant at her request. Helena, the woman he cared for, but did not love.

He sighed, and lifted the tea to his lips, taking a hesitant sip. _That's not quite fair. Remarrying, becoming Protestant... both were appropriate decisions, given the situation._ The defeat and subsequent capture of **the vampire**, coupled with his knowledge of the occult had led to this situation. The vampire had been bound to his service; likewise, van Helsing had been bound to the service of the English crown. His heroic deeds led to him being declared a British citizen and knighted. He had become a Knight of the Round Table and given the task of protecting England from all things supernatural. _They did not leave me much room to protest. _Still. It was only proper to adjust his surname accordingly, from van Helsing to the anglicized Hellsing, to make the transition easier for everyone involved. It was only proper he convert to the state religion. It was only proper he remarry and beget an heir to carry on his name.

His self-appointed duty as master of a monster was the natural result of his failure to destroy the vampire. That, and the task appointed to him by the crown, made an heir essential. Although the chains holding the monster were forged by a master practitioner of the arts, the vampire was bound using **his** words, **his** will, and **his** blood. The monster was bound to serve only his blood relatives; the purer the blood and unyielding will, the stronger the chains and control over the vampire. Thus, Abraham had needed an heir, a strong and intelligent son who could hold the monster's leash and reinforce its chains in the future. But his firstborn was dead, and his Catholic wife had long been trapped in her own mind and locked away in an Asylum. She could not bear him another heir, and yet divorce was impossible for a Catholic man like himself. She had finally passed away a barely two years after he became a British citizen. So, he had courted and proposed to Helena; they married shortly afterwards, in a small, private wedding.

Despite his misgivings, Helena and he had a comfortable enough relationship. They had become close friends, and she had, indeed, borne him an heir. They had twins, a boy and a girl. Edward Frederic Jonathan Hellsing and Anna Elizabeth Wingates Hellsing. They were turning ten next month.

_Edward, my bright, willful little imp. _He was everything a youth should be: spirited, energetic, and yet still intelligent and compassionate. He loved fencing, hunting, and horseback riding, but still the found the time to be diligent with his studies.

_Anna, my precious little Annika. _A less-delicate princess, with a love of porcelain dolls and art supplies... She wished to best her older brother in all things— fencing in particular.

He had begun to teach them what he knew of the occult and supernatural several years ago, although he regretted the necessity. Together, his children would build an army capable of combating the forces that threatened their homeland. Or so he hoped. He was training his children for an endless war against darkness.. against true evil. Training them to make war on the supernatural. His descendants' lives would be difficult... but they would have God on their side, and thorough knowledge of their adversaries. They would have the weapons necessary to be victorious. And if worst came to worst, they would have their secret weapon: the vampire.

The vampire had forsaken God.. And Abraham was forced to forsake his religion for another. The vampire had lost his twisted family; Abraham had destroyed it. Abraham had a family now, and his deepest, unvoiced fear was that the vampire would eventually destroy it. The vampire lost his freedom... but so had Abraham van Helsing and all of his descendants.

The man who was Abraham van Helsing— or perhaps it was Abraham Hellsing— sighed, placed the teacup back onto its saucer, and reached instead for the unopened letters waiting for him.

The teacup, and its now lukewarm contents, was a reminder of everything that had gone wrong after defeating the self-proclaimed No-Life King.

* * *

My muses decided to give me a kick in the pants, and I couldn't leave this alone until I finished writing it. (Sad, because I have much, much more important things to write right now. And I need sleep.) A bit of an odd chapter, which could be seen as stand-alone but was initially intended to be something of a twisted mirror to the first chapter. I always wondered a bit about van Helsing and how the Hellsing family was established.. And that musing is what brought this into existence. (Kudos to the people that can tell which bits I borrowed from the original Dracula.)

I see Abraham as something of "the other side of the same coin" to Alucard. Just a little.  
Anyway. Alucard thought about survival and revenge. Abraham thinks about his circumstances, his "new" family.. and not so much about the monster he's been torturing in the basement. (It's just a monster— why would Abraham even care?) Both are trapped, because of **what** they are. Monster. Guardian. Slave. Master. What van Helsing chose to do chained them both.

It's a rather different style from the first chapter. (And a bit of a strange topic.)

Fell free to tell me what you think, positive or not.


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